


Those Who Band Together

by DA830



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Concert Band, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cheesy title is cheesy, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rinea's last name is Altina which I know is also Sanaki's. do with that information what you will, band trips, music competitions/festivals (eventually), the music/band au absolutely no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-06-20 17:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15539100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DA830/pseuds/DA830
Summary: Some people you just don't expect to take music, but here they are, offering to shake your hand. Friendships will deepen, old bonds will be renewed, and Alm is as oblivious as ever.





	1. Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Hmm so this was originally on fanfiction.net when I still used it buuuut I don't use it that much anymore and someone told me to port it here. so uH please enjoy the product of my love for Echoes and my love of band!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of it all.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what lays inside the cavern. His hands clutch at the straps of his pack and he is ever-aware of the trusty sword at his side. The grounds are clear - is he late to the fight? He places both hands on the ancient wooden door.

_ This is it. _

He pushes them open, and the new world swallows him whole.

* * *

“All of you are new to this, I know, but -”

The grizzled old man’s wise words are interrupted unceremoniously by a sudden creak of the boarded door. Heads turn to the source of noise with bated breath. The man at the front, their teacher’s brow is raised skeptically. What kind of punishment he will unleash on whoever has disturbed his annual niner-speech -

The door swings open outwards and everyone’s vision is obscured for a second from the person who has opened it. Moments later, a lithe figure steps into the room.

He isn’t tall nor short, he’s an average height if one had to describe it. He’s dressed casually, for a soon-to-come summer day, it looks; he’s wearing a cerulean-blue t-shirt with an older band’s logo,  _ Deliverance _ , patterned in a faded white across his chest, and over that, a plaid red unbuttoned button-up long sleeve shirt, framing the icon in its open front. He is a myriad of colours, with the bright and bold ones on his shirt and drab ones on his shorts.

However, it’s not the clothes that grab people’s attentions, nor the seemingly confident way he carries himself.

It’s the hair.

It’s bright-forest-green and looks  _ naturally windswept _ .

It clashes horribly with the rest of his outfit choice.

His stance is ready, but obviously tense. His fingers find their way under the straps of his bag and his mouth is a thin line, taut with nervousness.

Mr. Equess (that’s pronounced eck-wess, thank you) decides to break the painful silence. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the entire class staring at the newcomer.

He’s got to make sure, this has happened in his classes before. He asks, “Are you supposed to be in -”

“Sorry I’m late!” the student blurts out, effectively cutting him off. He seems to realize his mistake, late, just like his arrival, and claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry! Go ahead.”

This elicits a few chuckles from the rest of his music class. It’s good to know that they’re not all stony faces and silent minds, based on what five minutes he’d had with them before. Then again, niners were always like that - scared to hell out of their wits.

“Well, I think there’s hardly need for that anymore, you’ve confirmed my question. Come on and sit down,” he directs, recovering smoothly.

“Yes, sir,” the green-haired boy responds, and hurries forwards to slide into a back row seat - it’s still fairly close, considering there are no desks and the chairs are arranged in band format, a semicircle.

Mr. Equess searches for his train of thought, attempting to pick up where he’d dropped it. He sighs to himself. There went the rest of his speech.

“I suppose it’s time for introductions. I’m Mr. Equess, your music teacher. I also teach the rest of the grades music, but I’ll be nicer to you guys because it’s your first year here. How about you, guy-with-the-green-hair, go ahead and introduce yourself. Say your name, your elementary school, and…” He contemplates playing a little icebreaker game this time around. “I’ll try and guess your instrument.”

“Uh, alright,” the boy clears his throat. “My name’s Alm, I’m from Ram Valley Collegiate.”

“Private school, eh? You look like a trombone, kinda...am I right?”

“Ah, I actually play flute.”

A few surprised murmurs of  _ flute? _ ring out, but Alm just looks bored. He’s probably used to this.

“Flute?” This is gonna get interesting. “Didn’t expect that. You ever think about switching to trombone?”

“Uh, no…”

He allows himself a small smile. If all went accordingly, he would have a new low brass member for Rinea’s concert band.

The game goes without any major bumps for the rest of the way. Everyone came from everywhere, there were a few from Ram Valley PS, some from Our Lady Help of Mila (that one was a more religious school), Zofia Central PS, and even one all the way up from South Rigel Academy. Not his most diverse class yet, but it definitely came close.

He finally turns his attention to the last student, a girl with strikingly  _ red _ hair (youngsters these days and their weird habits…). She is sitting on the opposite side from where he started, in the second row.

“Um, my name is Celica, I’m from Lady Help of Mila,” she says.

The hair colours and the names. Then again, his own name is uncommon, so he can’t really point fingers.

“Is your hair natural?” he prods. He needs to satisfy his own curiosity.

“Oh! Um, yes, yes it is,” she replies, looking slightly taken aback. “My father has the same colour.”

“Interesting, interesting,” he murmurs. He’ll address the green hair on the other side later. “You play flute, Celica?”

At this, the brown-haired girl beside her with some sort of pseudo-double pigtails who plays the alto sax, Mae, giggles. He must have gotten it wrong, then.

Celica opens her mouth to speak, but he stops her. “Wait, let me guess. ...Tuba?” he suggests, picking the most opposite instrument to his first guess. Might as well cover all bases, right?

To his and most of the class’ total surprise, she nods abashedly.

“Tuba! Really?”

Ah, yes, this class was going to be tons of fun.


	2. Unwilling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second impressions are important and everyone starts to get to know each other.

Second impressions meant just as much as first impressions, he tells himself. His first impression hadn’t been very good yesterday, but compared to Alm’s, it made him look good, at least.

The second day, he’s a bit more used to the general hustle and bustle of Zofia Central Secondary School. The higher grades are so intimidating, and as he passes the couple who is making out before first period on the second day, no less, he averts his eyes and scurries past the area meekly.

Before long, and before he has to  _ talk _ to anyone, perish the thought, he is met with the now-familiar door for his first period class, music.

Early is better than late, he knows, he was early yesterday, and he’s early today. He’s among the first to arrive; if he recalls correctly, the boy who’d introduced himself as Boey is sitting quietly, flipping the pages of a thin book.

Boey, Alm...uncommon names, but he can’t really say anything - his own name is just as strange, and misspelled, all the damn time.

He locates himself in the same spot as before, the second seat to the end. He’d only done that originally so that no one would sit next to him on either side, but his plan had proved unsuccessful. He knew no one in this class, not after Tobin and Gray’d told him they had last period music.

Then Alm had come. The green hair, the name...everything about him had seemed familiar, the way he rushed into the class, or admitted his out-of-place instrument nonchalantly.

He just couldn’t place where.

Maybe Tobin or Gray or Faye would know, if they saw him.

* * *

He blows past the front doors, hurriedly closing them behind him. He jumps down the four stairs and takes off running. If he goes at his top speed, he can make it in seven minutes, tops. Waking up late yesterday did  _ not _ help his case, adjusting to school.

Thankfully, the roads seem to be calm and the intersections aren’t busy, so he’s able to make it in about five. Students are still walking, so he knows he’s safe. He slows down, panting heavily, and merges into the flow. All those years of playing football have finally paid off…

The sight he is met with inside the school is new to him, as he was late yesterday. It’s just so  _ crowded _ ...so crowded. But there’s time to marvel later.

He ducks and weaves his way through the mass, another thing football’s come in handy for. It’s a good thing his class is relatively close. It’d probably be in his best interests to make a better entrance today.

He arrives just as the first bell rings (well, hopefully it’s the first bell). The class is about half-full, based on what he saw yesterday.

He slides his bag off his shoulders to slide into the last seat. The boy with endearingly messy blonde hair who was there yesterday is there again, staring at something on his phone.

He attempts to recall the events of yesterday, more specifically, the introduction of everyone.

“Hey, Kliff, was it?” If he gets it wrong, he’s probably gonna die of embarrassment.

The blonde looks up with something more than surprise, mouth a perfect little O. It disappears quickly and he reverts to the same bored-like expression he’d had all period yesterday. His phone turns off and he replies, “Yeah. Alm, right?”

“That’s my name!” Alm offers a smile and plops down onto the seat in relief. “Nice to meet you.” He extends a hand out of courtesy, like his elementary school taught him to.

Kliff flinches, and he’s worried he’ll be left hanging, but his hand is grasped with a surprisingly strong, small hand and shaken once, before letting go.

“Nice to meet you too,” the boy mumbles, pocketing his phone.

Alm continues with his inquiries. “You play clarinet, right?”

“Yeah.”

He notices he doesn’t get an ask back, but whether that’s from rudeness or that Kliff is sure of the answer, he doesn’t know. Alm decides to give him the benefit of the doubt; he doesn’t know Kliff all that well anyways.

“So what’s your schedule like?” Again, he’s the one initiating all the questions. It would probably be all quiet now if it weren’t for him.

“Music, language, lunch, geography, gym,” he rattles off easily, counting them on his fingers.

“Oh hey, we have four periods together!” Alm exclaims excitedly. His last period is actually math, which he’s already dreading again.

Kliff gives him a deadpan glance. “Yeah, you said that in geography yesterday while Mr. Sagesse was talking.”

He frowns. “I did?” The first day was honestly a blur for him - the high of starting a new chapter in his life must have gotten to him.

“Yeah, you did. Sagesse yelled at you, remember?”

The image of an old man with a long beard giving him stern words pops up in his memory. “Right, right, that happened. Well,” he says matter-of-factly, “we should be friends then! ‘Cause we have almost all our classes together and all.”

“Oh! Um, sure!”

Kliff nods, staring downwards, into his lap. Alm thinks he can see the trace of a smile on Kliff’s soft facial features, and he’s satisfied.

Class starts without a hitch, with the rest of the students filing in gradually. Today’s all about getting to know the course, as Mr. Equess explains.

“What is it with the hair in this class? Do you guys dye it?”

And, apparently, interrogations.

He can see the question’s mostly being directed to him, rather than the girl opposite of him - Cecilia? As he glances up to answer the question, he unintentionally locks eyes with her and they share a glance for a bit  _ too long _ before he breaks it and brings his gaze up rightfully to the teacher.

“Actually, it’s natural, I inherited it from my grandfather,” he explains, self-consciously bringing up a hand to touch his bangs. He misses the familiar weight of the headband he wears for sports and occasionally playing his instrument, but that would have to do later.

When that’s cleared up, Mr. Equess goes on to lay out the plan for the year, including the fact that they won’t be playing any actual instruments until the second or third week, as he likes to get the theory and history over with first. There is a collective groan from the class at that, but he only smiles knowingly, as he’s probably done this many times before.

At about the midpoint of the class, when their teacher is going over the mandatory (boring) classroom expectations and procedures, Alm feels a tap on the shoulder. He turns around and leans to the side so Kliff can whisper in his ear.

“How many years have you been playing the flute?”

Kliff’s expression is one of complete boredom, and the question is peculiar, coming from him, so Alm can only suppose it’s out of making small talk. Still, he’s happy at being the recipient of initiation, finally, rather than the other way around.

“Two,” he whispers back, holding up the amount of fingers. “How about you?”

“Four,” and the appropriate number is displayed on his hands, except in multiples of two. “I was in a split back then, so -”

“Alm.”

The two boys snap to attention, although it was only Alm’s name called. Mr. Equess is looking at him, a stern expression on his face. “I’d like it if you paid attention so that you’d know not to speak while I’m speaking.”

“Yes, sir,” he squeaks. Kliff covers up his snort of amusement through a poorly disguised cough. Small laughs are heard around the room.

The general attention shifts back to the front, along with Alm’s, but not before he hears Kliff’s whispered challenge.

“Let’s see if you can get all the teachers to yell at you within the first week,” Kliff says with a teasing smile.

Alm nods with an equally stupid grin, then focuses on the front.

This was his specialty, talking to people and making friends. It was good to see that his natural charm was still in effect.

 

* * *

“Have a good rest of the day.”

With their teacher’s ever-punctual parting words, the bell rings, and the students move to pack up and hurry to their next class. Older students already push the door open to await the second bell. As she walks past the rabble swiftly, she catches snippets of conversation here and there - “Yeah, I told Python to finish the writeup but he didn’t, he’s actually a snake” - “Yeah, that sounds like him” - not to mention the excessively indulgent hair colours, already in her class there was turquoise-green and bright red, and now there’s another burgundy red, and a jade green, even a dark aquamarine that is exclaiming indignantly, “It’s not  _ my _ fault I always snake you guys!” - it’s all too much for her, perhaps she’ll enjoy language class a bit more. She passes the boy in her class with the turquoise-green hair, Olme or something, the only one who has caught her lofty eye so far - he’s conversing with scruffy-looking boy with messy hair and disheveled clothes, does he even  _ know _ how to take care of himself!?

The hallways are a mess as usual; she’s learned how to weave in and out sideways as not to touch anyone. Her next classroom is just a hop, skip and jump away, thankfully. A shorter trip means less risk of having to interact with the people.

As with her first class, she’s one of the first in the door, so she has first pick of the seating. She chooses the same spot as the day before, in the center row, right at the front. Hopefully no one will choose to sit beside her, as it’s in such close proximity to the front, clearly an undesirable position.

Her logic is proved correct when the teacher walks in, the last body in the room, and the seat to her right is still blissfully unoccupied. She sighs in relief and dumps her bag into the chair.

“Alright! We’re starting!” The teacher has to yell, almost, to make herself heard over the ruckus of conversations. It gradually quiets down to a low murmur, which is quickly shut down by a fast glare from the teacher.

“Thank you. Now, to start off the class, I’m gonna be assigning you all seats. Now, before you all kill yourselves over this -” she stops to let the class express its disapproval of the decision. She doesn’t participate in this - she’s much too refined to revert to such uncouth methods. As long as she’s alone or with someone who can hold their own in her presence, then she’ll live.

“It’ll only be for a short while, but I’ll be changing your seating plans quite often. By the end of this course, you’ll have gotten to know everyone very well!”

She sighs, keeping her face impassive, as she was trained to do. She’ll only have to spend half a year with the common students - thank goodness for semester-divided schools, she reflects. She closes her eyes and sends a quick prayer to Mila that she’ll be paired with someone of her caliber.

“Clair…”

She cocks her head like an eagle to the source of her name - her teacher is patting down on a desk and reading from her seating plan, presumably. She notices her’s is the first called, and it’s on the side next to the window, at the front. She’s on the inside of the pair, snugly fit against the wall.

She could have had it worse, she supposes, as she picks up her bag to move about two metres. At least she’ll have a wall to lean on and a window to stare out of.

“Alm.”

A wave of rare excitement flares up in her - could this be the very same Alm in her music class?

A body drops into the chair to her right, one with windswept green hair and questioning eyes, confirming her guess.

As their teacher continues to make rounds, she decides to introduce herself. First impressions are everything, she knows.

“Greetings. My name is Clair. It’s a delight to make your acquaintance.” She holds out a hand, and if past experience spoke the truth, it would be taken reluctantly and with surprise. Not many people were of her higher-order upbringing.

To her utmost surprise, her hand is taken without hesitation and shaken once, twice, firmly. His hand is  _ not _ sweaty (thank the  _ gods _ ), and rather rough but smooth in areas (she attributes this to calluses).

“Hey, I’m Alm! Nice to meet you too.” He smiles at the end of their little exchange, and she finds herself unusually compelled to smile back.

_ This is just a commoner _ , she tells herself.  _ Don’t get too ahead of yourself. _

“Hey! Alm!”

She hears the scraping of a chair coming from directly behind her. Dreading what she’ll see, she turns around to catch sight of the same scruffy-looking boy she observed in the music room.

“Kliff!” Alm’s smile widens, becoming more familiar. “What a stroke of luck!”

She notices Kliff keeps his eyes downcast, almost as if he’s unable to meet Alm’s stare.

_ Rude. _

“Yeah, well...I’m not the only force at play here.”

She turns back to the front, determined not to be noticed and forced into polite conversation. Alm, however, has different ideas.

She flinches at his touch. He lays a gentle hand on her shoulder, heating up at contact. “Clair, this is Kliff. Kliff, this is Clair.”

She stiffly turns and dips her head slightly in acknowledgement. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Hello,” he murmurs, but it seems it’s more out of obligation than anything else.

Suddenly, a new boy slips into the chair next to Kliff, behind Alm this time. He looks dirty, in Clair’s humble opinion, but that might just be because of the dirty-blonde hair and grimy headband. All in all, someone else she’s going to have to interact with against her will.

“Kliff! Who’re these people?”

To make it worse, his very  _ voice _ is annoying and he’s wearing a perpetual smirk that she can just  _ tell _ is going to be the death of her.

“Um. Actually, this is Alm. Alm, this is my friend, Gray.”

She determinedly keeps her head forward and a little lowered. It should give off the impression that she’s closed off and doesn’t want to talk -

“And who would Miss Blonde Beauty be?”

She draws in a breath. Really, what else did she expect?

Heads would definitely be rolling before the year was over.


	3. Competitive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems like everyone's got Alm on their minds these days, but some for different reasons than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another note, a few months after writing this chapter, I realize I don't really like the way I described Celica's piano playing. In later chapters, it'll be better (hopefully).

Two weeks pass in two shakes of a dragon’s tail.

Two weeks of pure, unadulterated learning pass in the blink of an eye.

Two weeks of  _ him. _

She’d known Kliff, Gray and Tobin for most of her life, and despite being the only girl in a group of boys, they were quite close-knit, having met in kindergarten and stuck together until the present day.

She loved all three of them, but in the ‘having three uncontrollable younger brothers’ sense. Not to mention that being around the three of them for too long would desensitize anyone to the _ wild wonders _ of masculine charm, herself included. That was why she’d never looked twice at any boy who happened to cross her way - it wasn’t that she had high expectations, she just wasn’t interested. She’d had  _ one  _ crush in her entire life, and that had been from way back when she was little - the boy had long since faded from her recent memory.

Then high school had rolled around, and strapped to its back was change. Changing routines, changing friend groups, changing gym clothes, she knew it was inevitable, but she resolved to keep an open mind and heart about all of it.

What she  _ didn’t _ know was how much one person could change everything.

He stood out, that much was obvious. With his outgoing personality and naturally windswept green hair, he was a black sheep in a crowd of pigs.

Unique  _ and _ dreamy…

Call it her wallflower facade, but she had always found it easy to blend in, especially in crowds and open areas. This made it easy, for lack of a nicer term, to stalk him.

His timetable this semester: music, language, lunch, geography, math.

His timetable next semester: gym, science, lunch, history, home economics.

His favourite lunch spot: the second table from the window, usually at the end.

His address -

The list could go on and on (and it did, she had a notebook for this kind of thing), but the point seemed pretty clear -

She was finally in love.

“What the hell!?”

“Heck,” Kliff corrects automatically.

Of course, her friends just wouldn’t be who they were if they didn’t interrogate - er, inquire as to what was facilitating her strange behaviour of late, which included but was not limited to: going home late, eating lunch alone, being late to a lot of her classes, and not doing the mounds of homework she had due.

“No, this is definitely ‘hell’,” Gray repeats. He flipped another page of the small notepad. “What the hell!”

She sighs. Nothing good could come out of this, but she supposed they still deserved to know.

“You gonna hog it all to yourself, or let us see what’s up?” Tobin finally decides to intervene, cuffing the scruffy-haired boy across the back of the head. From his vantage point on the couch arm, he has an easy target.

“Yeah, here.” Gray holds out the offending notepad, staring Faye straight in the eye. She supports his challenging gaze unflinchingly.

“Faye…” he whispers, almost reverently.

“Yes?” She lets her answer hang in the air, daring him to ridicule her. This was  _ not _ going the way she thought it would, or at least the way all the foreign dramas showcased love interest reveals.

“You know, having crushes and all is healthy, but being  _ borderline obsessed  _ with the guy probably isn’t -”

She sighs again, breaking the sight connection and tension. “Am I obsessed? I just want to get to know him, that’s all…”

“Oh, jeez, you even know where he lives?” She looks over to see Tobin grimacing and Kliff holding the paper with an iron grip. His hands are shaking.

Gray grabs her wrist. “If you want to get to know him, then why not  _ talk to him _ ? Isn’t that how normal people usually get to know each other? It’s not that hard, you know. I’ve done it, Kliff has done it, probably a million other people have done it!”

Kliff doesn’t react to the small mention of his name.

She remembers the boy’s easygoing smile, the way he talks so  _ easily _ to other girls...all the reasons it would be impossible to hold a conversation with him.

She must have looked down, lost in her melancholic thoughts of the pitfalls of human interaction, because Tobin slaps him again, this time across the back of his neck.

“Why do you think she’s  _ doing  _ this, gods! Try and  _ think _ for once!”

To everyone’s surprise, Gray doesn’t fire up with a comeback ready and guns blazing. He lets go of her, but she’d forgotten she was being restrained in the first place.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

Tobin’s eyes go wide and his eyebrows shoot up. She can feel herself making the same expression - did Gray just  _ willingly _ apologize?

To  _ Tobin _ , no less…

And Kliff still hadn’t said a word.

* * *

The week had been a good week.

The first week of high school, just like that,  _ bam _ , over. One one hundred and forty-fourth of his high school career, gone.

It was really nothing to worry about now that he’d experienced it. His classes were great, with great people and pretty good teachers, especially music - they would be starting instruments in the next week, as well. Apparently they were better  _ tuned _ to theory than Equess had previously thought, so they would be speeding through the rest of the lessons...and then, on to the ‘real fun’.

Then somehow, Kliff had gotten himself invited over to Alm’s house in light of this new development, for the purpose of a ‘pre-emptive instrument practice’ and a quick study for their first Geography test, coming up that next Tuesday.

They’d exchanged numbers at the end of the day on Friday, Kliff adding Alm’s to a grand total of  _ two _ numbers on his phone, the other’s being an insistent Faye. He couldn’t help but feel proud, standing in front of the bus station while typing in those ten numbers. Alm was such a great guy - spending a week filled with sincerity with him had proved that - and Kliff could now call him a friend.

That  _ was _ big, in his book.

So it’s with blinding nerves and anticipation that he stands, clutching the handle of his lightweight case and a thin-to-be-thick binder, on the front porch of the corner house. It’s a generous size and the exterior looks old - old in the sense of  _ time period _ old - it resembles a castle in some ways, with its stone bricks and pointy railing and intricate Rigelian double doors. No car is present in its lengthy driveway, so he can only assume it’s parked behind the garage door.

It’s one in the afternoon on a sunny April Saturday, but the back of his neck isn’t burning up just because he forgot to apply sunscreen. It’s on this day that he’s going to have a glimpse into the life of his new friend.

The nerves bite at his head harder and he draws in a measured breath. Why is he shuddering? Perhaps he should have worn a darker coloured shirt, his sweat would definitely show through…

But Alm wouldn’t care, would he?

The surge of anticipation rises up in him once more, his stomach uncomfortably heating up, back prickling, and he lurches forward heavily to press his elbow against the doorbell - he has no free hands to do so.

Now or never, he reflects, waiting on the porch, unconsciously holding in a shallow breath. His grip on the slick binder shifts slightly, slipping against the fabric of his shirt and jabbing into his torso.

Footfalls boom ever closer, and at the last second, Kliff prays they’re Alm’s. A parent or guardian confrontation would  _ not _ help his nervousness.

With a loud click, the door is unlocked and swings inwards to reveal its opener.

Soft sunlight falls on a bright smile, lands gently in the folds of a baby blue shirt, illuminates a forest of green hair, and as he steps straight into the sun, Kliff knows that his worries were for nothing.

One can rarely find him practicing his clarinet, but today, he is going to play his heart out.

* * *

The weekend was a blessing for some, a curse for others. A temporary, sweet release from the heartless pound of school was all everyone needed to get through the next week, but for those who thrived on company and socialization, two days without outside contact meant the world.

For her, it means practice.

If she wanted to become the best, if she wanted to show everyone the power and joy of her music, then the only course of action she could take was to practice.

Waking up at the crack of dawn, it’s like clockwork to her. She’s lucky she lives in such close proximity to the studio she takes lessons at - an easily ridable journey means she doesn’t have to wake up everyone else in her house while slamming on the keys.

April is a pleasant month, and every day, she praises Mother Earth, Mother Mila for blessing the land with peace. The sun is gentle and the last tendrils of winter are withdrawing, ushering in the first touch of summer.

Today, she’s feeling especially lazy, and she would welcome a chance to observe the nature around her, so walking seems the better choice, even though the mechanical advantage induced through biking would have her use less energy.

She remembers house keys and her books and goes to retrieve the objects. Her brother’s room’s door is slightly ajar, which she passes by on the way to her own. Up late again, doing whatever it was he did on his computer. Writing, he always said, but writing what, she would never know.

The sun isn’t over the houses yet and there’s probably no need for sunscreen, but she rubs it in anyways, just in case. She drops the keys into her book bag and hitches it over her shoulder, and she’s ready to go.

The walk isn’t long, six or seven minutes at most, but it’s enough for her to take in the spring sights. Her knee-high skirt bounces ever so slightly around her legs with every step she takes.

The studio in question doubles as a local community centre - that way, music would be open to the public if anyone wanted to listen or just get away for some time.

The quiet tinkle of a bell alerts the morning receptionist to her presence. On the weekends, it’s usually a tall, stern-faced man (but he really isn’t stern at all) named Kamui, who, coincidentally, happens to be her teacher.

“Celica.” He greets her with a brisk nod from behind the desk, putting down whichever fantasy novel he’s reading now. “Early morning practice again?”

“As usual,” she replies steadily, offering a heartfelt smile and turning to walk further into the building.

“Oh, wait,” he calls. She hears a chair being pushed back and Kamui is suddenly in front of her, leading the way. “I have to unlock the room for you.”

She dips her head in acknowledgement and follows her teacher around the corner, down the open hall to the ‘atrium’, as everyone jokingly dubs the area. The clear blue is visible through the glass above, flinging faint shadows under the various potted trees and one upright piano sitting in the middle of the floor. Practice rooms that are also used to teach in line the walls, as well as a larger common room used for social gatherings and the like.

Her teacher beelines to the nearest one; it doesn’t have the piano she’s used to, but it shouldn’t matter because they’re all the same.

Keys on a lanyard appear in his hands and disappear into the lock for a few seconds before a few jiggles of the handle open the door. He steps aside and motions towards the practice room as if presenting it to her, which, she supposes, he  _ is _ really doing.

“All yours,” he smiles, and turns to head back to his post.

“If you need any help, call for me,” he adds, then he’s gone.

Kamui is...eccentric, she knows, but he really is a good teacher. She’s had him for most of her career in piano, which is ten years and running, so far.

She steps into the brightly lit room and closes the door quietly.

Over time, she’s come to known her piano teacher and the little quirks that make him, well,  _ him _ .

The _ Novis _ upright is already open. With a swipe of her hand, the dust is propelled into the air and off the little ledge-stand. She wipes it on the underside of her skirt.

On top of those little idiosyncrasies, he had  _ crazy _ skills. She’s  _ sure _ he must have been a professional performer and peaked early or something, but every time she brought it up in good company, he would smile his eye-crinkly smile and ask towards her own improvements.

In one hand, she holds her repertoire book. In the other, the  _ technical _ book which weighs quite a bit more than the repertoire, but that’s a given because of all the scales and intervals and sight-playing pieces it holds.

She plops down onto the piano bench, contemplating her choices. What is she in the mood for today?

...Well, the answer to  _ that _ question would be repertoire.  _ No one _ could genuinely enjoy playing scales.

The accursed book of scales is put in its place and moved to the side. She leafs through the repertoire to the page she wants, a  _ Fantasia _ by Altina. Four pages long and grueling, but she enjoys every single note of it.

She throws her head back, bangs sliding to the side, and focuses on the first note. Her pinky finger rests over the low D, the starting note.

And she begins to play.

These first few measures are deep and dark, setting the mood and tone; they’re important as ever. She follows the motions of the repeated arpeggios, up and down, like water across the board. It merges into a short call and answer between the two hands, then up, all the way up, and the low notes are released in the wake of a slow chromatic run down to a final, resting note.

A pause.

Back to the D minor chord, but now it’s slow and light and high, quietly reminiscing of an  _ aria _ . Each pulsing beat of the left hand is feathery and supports the dancing melody of the right, until everything is stopped by a powerful octave. Her thumb slips on the A sharp but she quickly rights it, carrying on with staccatos and building up to the climb of the A chord.

Another pause.

Back down to the middle ground, appropriately accenting the start of each measure in the six repeated quarter notes and the left comes  _ crashing _ in; she makes a mental note to ease off a bit more next time. The minor chords bring out the dread and each octave in the bass makes her feel powerful, and a diminutive flourish ends off that little section.

The next part is like a cycle, a cycle she’s taken part in many times. Offbeats on the two-note chords on the left and some fancy articulation that looks harder than it really is - it’s nothing she can’t achieve through practice. It’s fast, and it only gets faster as it steadily evolves into a frenzied mess of chromatics and accidentals that somehow sound good - but she has  _ yet _ to perfect it for real -

And it comes to a slow, her middle finger pausing hesitantly over the last note, a resounding D, and she tumbles in to the following melody, starting out like it did before in the aria, but going higher, and she has to grow louder too, building tension and  _ still  _ climbing, and it’s released! Released in a  _ presto _ -tempo run, descending from the high C all the way to low G, and then her favourite part, a super-fast glide on repeating diminished D-flat broken chords all the way back up in a quintuplet so she can hit that last E-flat, bringing up her hand suddenly. It’s the only part where she feels like a performer.

The last pause, and she’s about to start on those six one-tone-lower notes again when she realizes she’s not the only one playing. Muffled by the supposedly ‘sound-proof’ door is quite the melody being played on the upright outside.

And if  _ she _ can hear  _ them _ ,  _ they _ can hear  _ her. _

On second thought, it’s a wonder and a blessing that she doesn’t have to deal with this more. She practices in a public space on Saturday mornings, of course there are going to be people that want to play as well.

She sighs and leans back to peer out the thin window. She doesn’t recognize the song, but it sounds quite complicated. A single low note can be heard throughout the alternate-broken chord notes of the left hand - twelve notes played against a regular common time melody. Whoever this is, they’re very advanced.

Now that the player has her curiosity, there’s no going back. She grasps the cold metal handle and turns it, pushing the door open. The upright isn’t facing her, so all she can see is the wooden back of the piano. She circles around to the front, and  _ there she is _ .

She can’t be older than thirteen, is her first thought. The girl is wearing a sunshine-yellow dress that as well as engulfs the bench in its flowiness. Her chestnut-coloured hair is done up with a thick golden bow to match the dress. Her legs are barely long enough to reach the pedals.

Twelve years old, she pegs the player at, and this girl’s probably better than Celica herself.

She leans against the cool wall. Around the corner is her teacher, sitting behind the help desk, probably marvelling at this girl’s skill.

Is she jealous? Jealousy is too strong a word to use here. Amazed, impressed, certainly  _ peeved _ a bit for having her precious practice interrupted, but definitely impressed.

She doesn’t know how long she watches, but by the time the final, joyous note is sounded, the sun is up and cascading through the glass. The girl lingers for a moment, then turns around and beams at her.

“Did you like it?”

Celica is surprised, her presence seems to have been known this whole time.

“Yes,” she tells the girl. “It was very enjoyable.”

“Thanks! Come closer, though, I don’t wanna yell at you,” the girl motions with her head.

Seeing as she’s now been invited, it would be rude to refuse and go back to practice. She walks up to the piano and leans on the side, propping her elbow up.

“It was really nice to listen to, and you played it quite well,” she elaborates honestly. The girl’s smile widens.

“Thank you! I worked hard. My name’s Delthea, what’s yours?”

“Celica. Nice to meet you.” She accepts Delthea’s proffered handshake, left-handed, she notes.

“Anyways, do you play piano too?”

It seems this little girl is full of questions, but questions with answers easily in her grasp. “As a matter of fact, I do,” she replies. “I was just practicing earlier, but I stopped, because-” she considers her thoughts for a moment - “I wanted to see who was making the beautiful music.”

It’s a truthful answer, to some extent.

“Aww!” Delthea swoons, clapping a hand to her cheek. Again, her left. “You’re too sweet!”

Celica feels a smile creeping up, despite her earlier discourse. This girl’s charms are too infectious.

“Don’t mention it,” she says. “Do you come here often?”

Delthea jumps. Literally, jumps. The bench shakes when she lands. Celica pushes off from the piano in confusion, allowing worry to coat her expression, like she knows it will.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good!” The response comes  _ far _ too quickly and she raises a questioning eyebrow in return. She can see Delthea try for a smile, but it’s shaky.

“Um, I don’t really come here that much. Today was -” her voice catches and she breathes in deeply. “Today was the first time I played here.”

She’s a bit confused by the sudden turn of events but accepts it all the same. “Do you live close, then?”

Delthea looks relieved at the change of subject, and this time, the hasty answer is probably warranted. “Yeah! I can walk here in a few minutes, tops!”

“Really?” She wonders if it would be prudent to ask if they lived on the same street...she couldn’t very well ask where Delthea lived, now, could she?

She opted for the safer way. “Same thing for me, I live a few minutes away -”

She’s unceremoniously interrupted  _ again _ when Delthea turns her head quickly, glancing over her shoulder, then says in an apologetic tone, “Sorry, I think I hear my brother’s calling me! Gotta go!”, hops off the bench and runs off, leaving Celica staring bemusedly after her retreating figure, unable to even finish the sentence.

“That’s the oldest trick in the book,” she murmurs.

There is no one else in the studio, other than the two who were there to begin with. 

Delthea was an anomaly. Her practices are usually quiet, calm and uninterrupted, and she can wholeheartedly say she prefers it that way. However, she  _ cannot _ wholeheartedly say she didn’t enjoy talking with Delthea for the short time that they did.

She gathers up her book and drops it into the bag, meanwhile closing the cover on the piano dutifully. There’s no point in practicing now when she’s just witnessed a spectacular performance, she’ll overdo it trying to be the best.

Just as she’s heading out the door, Kamui calls for her to stop.

He jerks a thumb behind him. “Heard her, did ya?”

She nods, wordless.

He smiles his crinkly-eye smile and claps her on the shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. I won’t deny the fact that she’s good, but you’re good too. You’ll get there in time.”

His console  _ does _ make her feel a little bit better about the things she didn’t know she had been worrying about, after all.

“Thanks.” She musters the strength to smile for her teacher.

“There’s that grin. I’ll see you on Tuesday.” He points a finger gun at her and nods happily.

“See you,” she echoes softly, and pushes the door open.

Now, with her mind unencumbered of practice and competition, it turns to school. She hasn’t played tuba in a while, she reflects, walking out from under the shade of the overhang and onto the sidewalk. Considering they’re starting instruments the following week, maybe she should’ve found some way to procure a tuba and practice.

Disregarding instruments, though, she should count herself lucky. She’s survived through the first week of high school without harm, bodily or otherwise. Mae, Boey and Genny are with her, her friends all the way from third grade that she trusts with her life.

And Alm. Practice had driven him from her thoughts, but now he’s back, and in full force.

It’s Alm.

Had he forgotten her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delthea's piece was Liszt's Consolation No. 3 and Celica's was Mozart's Fantasia in D minor. I suggest you listen to them because i diDn"t dO tHEm jUstICe


	4. Chorale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the first practice session happens after a chaotic first day with instruments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit this is directly based off my experiences, though I think Mycen had it better than my music teacher. Also see if you can guess what instrument I play cuz gODdAMn three minutes was hard when we first started

“So! As you all know, today is a very special day.”

The obvious dramatic pause is punctuated by the unmistakable click of a door locking. Ms. Altina grins knowingly from behind the door at anyone who looks.

“I see…” His eyes sweep around the room. “That many of you have brought your instruments. Well, I have good news and bad news for you.”

He allows himself to briefly enjoy the mix of horrified and excited faces in the room.

“We…” He clasps his hands and rests them on the stand in front of him.

“Will be playing our instruments.”

The reaction he gets is one he has received time and time again, a flurry of whispers and glances exchanged throughout the various friendships in his class, and everyone seems to have forgotten about the ‘bad news’.

It’s always his favourite part.

“However…” he projects his voice, louder than usual, and the murmuring stops dead. He holds up three fingers.

“You can only play if you can assemble your instrument in less than three minutes.”

Three minutes  _ really _ isn’t that bad of a time limit, but the exclamations make it seem otherwise. All his older classes are used to it, heck, they even do it in half the time.

“You have three minutes! Go!”

The previous week, they’ve already gone over instrument care and assigning instruments to students who didn’t have one as well as assigning correct seats, and he’d already notified them to bring in their instruments, “just in case”, so all that’s left is to actually play.

As the last word leaves his mouth, his students start their frenzy. He’s purposely placed the second row of chairs a mite farther away so that no one will trip, and the stands closer to the front row. He’s not having a repeat of his first year of teaching music (which was quite a long time ago).

The students who brought instruments hurriedly unzip, unlatch, unhook their cases and put together the various pieces with more  _ force _ than needed - clarinets possibly have it harder than everyone else.

The rest of the students leap out of their chairs to retrieve their assigned school instruments - the flutes, clarinets, alto saxes and trumpets flock towards the shelf at the back of the room, and the tuba and trombone girls make their way to the small room behind him.

“Two minutes left,” he calls out, even though he hasn’t been keeping track. The boy in the front row, one seat from the left end, lets out a strangled cry around the reed in his mouth and jams the barrel of his clarinet onto the body. He chooses not to comment.

He has faith in them. They’ve shown promise through the week of sketchy musical theory he’s made them sit through - they have adequate amounts of knowledge concerning notes and rhythms, and scales will still definitely be hell, but they seem to be tame enough.

He waits for a few more seconds to pass, and shouts out “halfway there!”. By now, everyone is at their seats and in various stages of their assembly. Celica, the red-haired tuba player, sits contentedly at the very middle-back with the overlarge tuba sitting on her lap. She might be the first, but it makes sense. She has  _ two pieces _ to put together.

So far, the only sounds have been chairs scraping, metal clanking and voices. He’s happy. No one’s tried to play out of line. Yet. He’s hoping that “you can only play if you get it in less than three minutes” implies that fact.

No one’s had to come to him for help, yet, either, which he finds unusual. First day of playing after a possible long break, he  _ expects _ things to go wrong, but apparently he’s been blessed.

“Half a minute!”

Nearly everyone’s done at this point, there’s the two alto players in the back row... _ fighting _ each other?

Not fighting...no, the girl with the pigtails has taken the grey-haired boy’s mouthpiece. It doesn’t look  _ that _ serious, and he’d really rather not have to step in with disciplinary action on the second week. They still think he’s a nice teacher, and he doesn’t want to ruin that beautiful impression.

“And…” He looks pointedly at the clock above the door to the hallway. “Time’s up!”

He keeps his gaze trained on the clock for a few seconds as the alto player screws on his mouthpiece in his peripheral vision.

“Looks like everyone made it,” he announces, to everyone’s relief. “I hope you all remember how to play. Let’s skip tuning for today, I would like to hear how you sound as a class. Concert B-flat.” He steps back and opens his arms wide, not entirely sure what to expect.

A second passes.

Two seconds.

Three -

He lets his arms drop. It’s different every year.

“When I said ‘concert B-flat’, I meant for you guys to  _ play _ your concert B-flat note.”

Various noises of recognition echo throughout the room.

“Do we need to go over what note that is?” he prompts. He turns around, preparing to grab a marker.

“No,” a voice rings out. If he remembers correctly, it’s Mae, the one who’d stolen her friend’s mouthpiece a few minutes ago.

“No?” he repeats, completing the circle he’s spun in. “Maybe you don’t need to, but does anyone else?”

He lifts his eyes from her defiant ones and scans the room. When no one objects, he nods in agreement.

“Looks like you were right. Then in three, let’s all play the first note of the B-flat concert scale. Three...two...one…”

It’s not like he’s eased in to it. A wall of  _ sound  _ hits him like a  _ brick _ , some people blowing way too hard, some people on the wrong note (it always happens.), and a cocktail of squeaking reeds is the cherry on top. Rinea had locked herself in the music office, and with good reason. She probably has earplugs in.

He only realizes his eyes are closed a few seconds after the note is absorbed into every single fiber of his being. He opens his eyes and tries to flourish his hand in a closed motion, signaling for the players to stop. Only a handful seem to register the hand signal as a few clarinets and the (unfortunately, so unfortunately) small low brass section drops out. The two altos seem to be fighting,  _ again _ , but this time, for who can play the loudest? He’ll have to separate the two later.

He tries for the hand signal again, a bit firmer now, and he notices a clarinetist crack a smile. No one else seems to follow.

“Stop! Stop,” he  _ shouts _ , and with that, most of the flutes lower their instruments, the trombone stops blowing, and the saxes finally let off. There is a brief moment of blissful, peaceful silence.

“I think we  _ do  _ need to go over the note after all,” he announces, remembering the few mispitches he noted. “B-flat instruments, raise your hands.”

A smattering of hands come up, a few from the clarinet section, but none of the trumpets give any sign of affirmation.

“Add the trumpets to those,” he remedies, addressing mostly the clarinets to his left, “and those are your B-flat tuned instruments. Your first note would be a C. How about C tuned?” He poses the question to the class but vaguely motions in the direction of the flutes to give them a small hint.

Like fire to forest brush, they all catch on and all of the hands in the section come up. The tuba girl quickly joins them, along with the trombonist.

He nods. “Thank you for that. Your first note is B flat, then. And finally,” he continues, sweeping his line of sight across the class until coming to rest directly on the male half of the sax duo, “E flat tuned?”

The boy gets the less-than-subtle drift, hand shooting up swiftly. The rest of his section follows his actions soon after.

“Your first note is G.” The boy nods back, what looks to be a victorious smirk forming as he turns to face pseudo-pigtails.

“Let’s try that again, shall we? Now that we know our notes, it shouldn’t be too much of an ear splitter. Well, not as much as it was last time, at least,” he adds, to general amusement.

The note is cleaner, less rattling, less dissonance, but he can tell everyone has a serious problem with breathing and playing  _ strongly _ . The long tone seems to hang in the air, stationary and quickly staling. It sounds breathy and shallow and the tone is sweet almost to the point of sickliness - sharp, but barely so.

He stores away this information and carries on. The rest of the class goes well, for a playing day - Rinea comes out of the music office to observe the soon-to-be members of her band, he goes over a few breathing exercises and then eventually invites her over to talk about concert band for a quick moment.

Their wind ensemble is quite different from ones at other schools - there might be four bands, one for each grade, two bands, each encompassing two grades, the list can go on and on - but they just have  _ one. _

That’s right, one band for all four grades - and on top of that, it’s optional. They don’t usually have a problem with that, however, as the music program automatically weeds out any slackers as the years go by.

They usually take turns leading it, as it wouldn’t be fair to let one of them suffer for too long. This year it’s Rinea, Ms. Altina’s turn to direct the band, but he usually stays to help on the sidelines. It’s the same for her when he’s leading it.

He can tell that this is news to some of his students - some look terrified of playing with older students (he can’t say he blames them, the upperclassmen are  _ good _ ), some look extremely excited at this prospect, but what can one expect from a school with a middling music department? They weren’t bad, but they’d never really ascended to the top of anything.

Lately, though, the students in recent years had begun showing a lot of promise and potential. Perhaps this would be the year they did well.

The bell rings before long and he realizes he’d lost track of time. It usually happens on the first playing day, he reflects, so he just hopes he hasn’t made anyone late.

As the last few stragglers trickle out and into the main hallway, the first of his next class are released from the stream of students and into the room.

Thank goodness. He loved the challenge of raising a class to their highest potential, but sometimes all he needed was to hop right into the old grind.

* * *

She’s left reeling as the bell rings - a chance to play and learn from the older students? On one hand, it could be an incredible experience, but judging from what she’s born witness to every day in the transition from first to second period…

Needless to say, her upperclassmen don’t look very responsible,  _ least of all _ the three percussionists with  _ exotic _ hair colouring. She’s left to dwell absentmindedly on this fact as the bell rings again for second period to begin.

The teacher isn’t present yet, which is a usual occurrence nowadays. The teacher usually waltzes in five to ten minutes after class ‘officially’ starts - the first day was a fluke, she’d confessed, but since they’re high schoolers she expects  _ them _ to be there on time and to keep themselves in check.

Naturally, that means everyone disregards her warning.

She’s there, because she’s responsible and punctual, and so are a few other of her classmates, but it still leaves quite a bit to be desired in terms of attendance. There’s a girl with chestnut-blonde braids and a cute pink cardigan sitting near the back, and the scarlet-hair tuba girl residing on the far end of the front row, but that’s about all she can notice by the time a scruffy-looking man in a surprisingly clean tweed jacket and slacks strides into the room purposefully, a computer bag on his shoulder and hands at his sides.

“Is this first year literacy?”

Although his voice is deep, it cuts through the mild chatter like a hot sword to ice. The talking ceases immediately.

Just before the growing silence begins to get awkward, she speaks up.

“Yes, sir, it is,” she calls out loudly, edging a hint of contempt in her voice for all the people who didn’t speak. It’s  _ really _ only common courtesy to answer someone when they ask a question!

“Great.” With that, he’s set into motion. The front of the class is his destination, where he drops his bag on the desk and takes a piece of white chalk. Seconds later, his name is scrawled on the blackboard in fairly small, messy cursive.

“Excuse me, but what’s going on?”

Someone else’s finally gathered the heart to speak up, and the answer he gives is like a stray arrow - no one had seen it coming.

“Miss Lavelle’s on maternity leave. My name is Ezekiel Sirius, but you can call me Mister Sirius. I’ll be your literacy teacher for the rest of the year.”

They have no time to react to the news, however, as a few more students choose that time to arrive, talking amicably with each other. Among this group is that annoying-to- _ pieces _ boy, Gray, she notes.

The moment they step into the room, the teacher takes one look at them and says, “Late. I expect you to be earlier next time.”

The mortified looks on their faces, she supposes, is well-deserved, but at the same time, her heart sinks.

So Mr. Sirius is  _ that _ kind of teacher.

He reiterates the somber message to the rest of the students who come in after, the hanging silence leaving the class witness to each and every crushing murder of liveliness.

After everyone is safely filed in their seats, row upon row of attentive faces (quite in contrast to class before today), he starts his introduction.

“To all that don’t know, I’m Mr. Sirius. Your previous teacher is on her maternity leave now, so I’ll be taking over until the end of the course. There are a few classroom expectations you need to follow, but other than that, if you show me respect, I will show you respect as well.”

She usually prides herself on  _ actually  _ listening to these sort of speeches, but she soon realizes it’s everything she’s ever heard before and lacking, really, any originality.

“He sure is  _ serious, _ ” she hears Gray stage-whisper from behind. Kliff cuts his snort off early and Alm sinks into his seat to avoid being seen laughing. Even she can’t resist smiling, despite the uncut and uncouth nature of the pun.

Alm suddenly turns his head and catches her eye, still laughing. She quickly hides her smile and assumes a neutral expression - jokes at teachers’ expenses are quite unacceptable, she knows.

“We’re gonna practice in the music room during lunch,” he whispers, a real whisper this time. “Do you wanna join us?”

She assumes  _ we _ means him and Kliff, and Gray, if the rough boy is even taking such a course as elegant as music, and it would be against her better judgement to spend even more time in close vicinity with him, but she can feel herself being pulled in, ensnared by these warm feelings, feelings of belonging - just as she always has been before.

She also knows how badly things can end when it comes to other people.

“I need your full attention,” Mr. Sirius interrupts softly, casting a glance towards their direction. Gray, snickering at his own joke, is promptly  _ shh’d _ by Kliff, of all people. She is beginning to like the new teacher less and less.

Alm has also been turned away by the admonishment, sitting upright but only staring ahead, not at the teacher.

He invited her. That surely means he wants her to join them, right? Even though he’s seen how she is, first-hand  _ experienced _ how she is...but she’s trying to make an effort to be a little more...accepting, so maybe that’s showing through?

And yes, she can afford to interact with more people, regardless of their stature or station of birth, she tells herself.

Normally, she wouldn’t dare dream of distracting another from the chance to learn, but this is a different case. She taps a nondescript rhythm on Alm’s shoulder.

“What time?”

The grin he gives her lets her know she won’t regret it.

* * *

“Hey, sorry I’m late!”

“That’s okay, Clair’s not even here yet.”

Gray rushes in and lightly closes the door to the practice room behind him. He’s only been in here once - that was on one of the first tours he’d done of the room. It’s the larger one of the two practice rooms, spacious enough for two desks, a computer and room for, oh, five or so people to fit with their instruments.

As he drops his bag on the floor near an empty chair, Kliff reaches over to push on the door until it clicks satisfyingly. “Double lock,” he explains. “It makes it soundproof.”

“Cool.”

“Well, it’s not really soundproof,” Alm muses, adjusting the head joint on his flute. “You could probably hear us warming up, right?”

He gives an ambiguous grunt in response; he hadn’t really been paying attention.

Through the natural lull in conversation, Gray turns to unpacking his assigned trumpet while the other two do whatever complicated warm-up they do.

Along with visiting the practice room, he’s only played the trumpet once this year, in class. He hadn’t practiced at all, and even a man of his pride would have trouble saying he wasn’t rusty.

All the more reason to practice, right?

He finally frees his mouthpiece from the dirty confines of his bag and fits it squarely onto the trumpet, twisting it around to make sure it’s fully in. At long last, he raises it to his lips and blows.

The sound that comes out is garbled and wet and he can see Kliff cringe out of the corner of his eye. He stops, shakes it around, and tries again.

The breath he takes is straight from the stomach, like he was taught. This time, the middle C he’s aiming for comes out as a G, if he remembers his notes correctly, but it’s not spitty like it was before. It’s way more breathy than he likes, but it sounds good enough and he’ll take it.

He quickly runs through the notes he knows, oblivious to whatever the other two are doing, then drops the trumpet to his lap and wipes his mouth. “So what’re we gonna play?”

Kliff gives him a brief, withering glance, but the twitch in his frown lets him know he’s not being serious. “It’s called practice time. Play whatever you like.”

“ _ Or _ we could go through the book and see what looks interesting,” Alm quickly interjects.

“Let’s do the second one,” Gray says resolutely. There’s nothing more he enjoys than mixing it up and fooling around with other instruments, other than video games, or soccer, or...well, a lot of things, but the point is, it’s fun and usually leads to some sort of shenanigans.

Kliff shrugs and adjusts  _ Focus on Success  _ (damn those super cheesy names; at least they didn’t get  _ Accent on Achievement _ ), which is laying on his stand, while Gray digs through his bag yet again to search for the exercise book.

Soon, the green cover, faded with years of use, is also sitting on his stand. The sound of pages flipping reaches his ears and Alm says, “try page four? There’re a bunch of chorales on four and five.”

“What’s a chorale?” Gray wonders aloud, turning to the spot. It sounds familiar enough that he thinks he should know it from previous music classes, but he’s never been very good with musical terminology.

“It’s not even a technical term,” Kliff states, as if magically reading Gray’s mind. It wouldn’t be the first time that’d happened. “It’s basically a bunch of instruments or voices playing chords together.”

“It’s supposed to sound really nice if you play it well,” Alm supplies, then frowns. “I don’t know if we can play it well.”

“Oh,” Gray breathes, then assumes a more confident tone. “Let’s rock it!”

“You can’t rock a chorale. They have to be played strong and consistently,” Kliff corrects, scooting his chair backwards, farther away from Alm. “And more like  _ we _ ,” the clarinetist gestures to himself and Gray, “won’t be able to play it well. Your flute skills are unparalleled.”

Now, Gray hasn’t actually heard Alm play before, so Kliff could be simply telling the truth. On the other hand, Kliff’s the type of person to use long, unnecessary words like ‘unparalleled’ to describe perfectly normal things, so his only option is to find out for himself.

“You don’t know that! This school is probably filled with tons of flutes better than I am,” Alm objects passionately, shaking his own flute for emphasis. “Plus, you’re really proficient in the clarinet too!”

Gray, who can sense the beginnings of a compliment-off forming, laughs loudly to break the cycle. “Break it up, guys. We’re all amazing, and let’s leave it at that. Can we actually play now?”

He earns a strange, single-eyebrow-raised look from Alm. “We’re waiting for Clair, remember?”

“Right!” he amends, and as if on cue, the door swings open and the last member of their last-minute practice session steps into the room.

She looks at each of them in turn, gaze lingering the longest on Alm and the shortest on Gray. When she does look at him, he tries to muster the humblest, most innocent smile he can.

She doesn’t appear to have noticed, to his chagrin. “I apologize for my tardiness, I was preoccupied with something that had...popped up.” She makes a beeline for the last empty chair, which is conveniently (or inconveniently, depending on who one asks) located right next to him.

“We wouldn’t have started without you,” Alm replies readily, then directs his words towards Gray. “Right, Gray?”

“Of course! Totally!” He laughs it off, but it’s strange. It feels like he’s almost been admonished - at least, it’s akin to the feeling he gets from teachers telling him off, but much less so.

Alm is someone he’s only met a few weeks ago, yet along with the feeling of authority he gives off, he seems familiar, in a way. Maybe it’s just from him being reprimanded way too often? It’s not an implausible theory, to any extent.

“Thank you,” Clair says stiffly, although he notices she’s not scowling like she usually does (they call it resting-bitch-face, but her face is too beautiful for that kind of description).

Whatever it is, it’s progress.

A deep clarinet sound fills the room suddenly, advancing up in chromatics every few seconds. Right. Kliff.

As Alm also becomes occupied with more scales, Gray takes it upon himself to remind Clair to do the same. He nudges her foot gently, seeing she’s draped over the chair, fishing around in her bag, and says, “Warm up before you play so that we can practice.”

Too late, he realizes that what he’s said is extremely basic, common knowledge, and he shouldn’t have given in to making an excuse to talk with her, and although Kliff sounds like he wants to burst out laughing, if his wavering tone speaks for anything, Clair only looks back and nods before returning with her mouthpiece in hand.

Gray busies himself with twisting and tightening the valves on his trumpet in wait, and before long, everyone’s set up and warmed up.

“Okay, let’s do number four,” Alm suggests after the sound fades. He’s referring to the fourth line - Gray can definitely see why, the first three look like they were written in a northern language with all the sharps everywhere.

“Sounds good,” Gray nods, while Clair utters a stiff “yes” at the same time.

“I’ll count us in one bar. One, two, three…” With the last beat, he hears Alm take a loud breath in.

Sight reading has never been his strong suit, but luckily, there are only whole notes, so he has ample time to read the next note.

Before he knows it, it’s over and he can’t really recall how it sounded. All he could hear were his own notes, which might be an indication for why he can feel Kliff’s prickly gaze on him.

“That was…” Alm trails off.

“Excellent!” Gray finishes. “Can we try again, though? I think I zoned out for half of it.”

“That’s one gigantic mood,” Kliff states mysteriously, then launches into the count-in. “One, two, three…”

This time around, he can actually  _ hear _ the others’ notes. Alm and Kliff are in some sort of harmony and it sounds  _ really _ good for just two notes. Clair has the bass all to herself, and it blends in with the other two relatively easily.

Then there’s him. He doesn’t want to say it, so with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he thinks it: he’s probably the worst in this group. Suddenly he feels out of his depth, swimming with metaphorical sharks in the deep end of the music. The F he’s holding sounds brash and unrefined, stark and white compared to the smooth balance of the other three.

He presses onward, though, because this is  _ practice _ and if there’s anywhere he can afford to sound bad, it’s here, in a stuffy old room with three people he trusts not to make fun of him.

By the last note, it’s starting to sound less like a chorale ft. trumpet and more like chorale + occasionally mispitching trumpet, a testament to how much straining Gray had to do to lower the volume of his horn.

He takes it upon himself to state the obvious. “Okay, that was definitely better than last time.”

“It sure was,” Alm agrees, setting down his flute. “Clair, what do you think?”

Gray swivels to glance at her nonchalantly. She looks surprised at being asked her opinion, but he’s come to see that Alm tends to do that to people. Include them, if you will.

“I found it...refreshing, to say the least.” She pauses thoughtfully, rubbing a spot on the trombone’s slide. “To be able to play with good musicians was something I hadn’t experienced before.”

“That’s good to hear,” the flautist replies bemusedly. “But when you put it like that, does that mean everyone at your elementary school was bad?”

“Exactly,” she says without hesitation.

Kliff lets out a snort, and Gray can see why. That’s just the sort of thing she’d say, and not lie about. The humour of the situation is too obvious.

“Wow, they must have been really bad to be worse than me,” he comments, throwing the joke out.

“You’re not bad, though,” she insists, fixing him with a serious look. “The very fact that you realized what was wrong the first time and remedied it the second time is proof enough.”

She’s also the type to actually use the word ‘remedied’ in common conversation, he thinks.

“We’re all improving,” Alm cuts in, flashing a smile. Gray had opened his mouth to respond with probably another compliment, but this time it’s Alm who breaks up the compliment war before it even starts. “That’s why we’re here, right?”

“My apologies. Should we get back to it, then?” And just like that, her no-nonsense, no emotion side is back, making him wish he’d paid more attention to her when she was talking to him instead of paying attention to what kind of vocabulary she used.

But damn, it sure is a hell of an extensive vocabulary.

“By all means, if you and Gray want to keep going at it,” Kliff gestures, “we won’t stop you.” He makes two talking-mouth movements with his hands and proceeds to make them attack one another with their...mouths?

“No, thank you,” Clair says, sounding disgusted, at the same time Gray saying “Can you not?”, pouring as much weariness into his voice as possible.

“There’s one thing you can agree on!” Alm points out, giving them the thumbs-up. Gray smiles weakly back; perhaps Alm had interpreted his response differently than he’d intended it to be.

“Yes, one thing,” Clair emphasizes, although Gray isn’t entirely sure where she plans to go with this. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing, however, as instead of explaining herself, she lets it hang in the air enigmatically and raises the trombone to her lips.

She goes through a scale, deep, brass notes filling the room. The soft, woody timbre of Kliff’s clarinet joins her’s not long after.

Gray lets his eyes wander, and naturally, they come to rest on Clair. He has to admit, her technique looks flawless, bell raised, back straight, hand poised daintily on the slide, and the sound that comes out is mostly clear of dirty blares and smudges. Granted, he doesn’t know much about trombone technique, but at least it looks vaguely professional.

A sudden knock at the door draws everyone’s attention, sound ceasing abruptly. It swings in and Mr. Equess, their grizzled old band teacher, steps in.

“Sorry for interrupting what I could hear was a very dedicated practice session,” he says, looking extremely serious, “but I just wanted to check in, see if there’s anything any of you need help with.”

“It’s quite alright, sir,” Clair pipes up, beating them all to it. “I believe we’re doing fine as of now.”

“Yeah, we’re alright for now, but we’ll make sure to ask if we need to,” Alm adds.

Mr. Equess heaves an exaggerated sigh. “All you kids these days, so independent,” he laments, cracking a smile. “That’s a good thing, at any rate. Anyways, I also wanted to let you know that band starts next week, after school Thursdays. I’ll see you all there?”

“Affirmative,” Gray grins, and Mr. Equess nods his approval, stepping out of the room and closing it. The double lock resonates in the room.

They run through a few more basic exercises Alm finds in the practice book, ending when they’ve just divided parts for a duet as the bell rings for the next class.

“Darn. Next time,” Alm says lightly, reaching under his chair to grab the flute case.

“How about tomorrow?” Gray suggests offhandedly. It’s not because he wants to spend more time with Clair, he tells himself. Well, not  _ only _ because - he has a feeling his trumpeting needs to be sorely improved.

And if he  _ does _ get to be with Clair more, well, that’s just a bonus.


	5. Math Does Not Make Sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As usual, the only thing that does not happen in math class is actual math.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So shorter chapter this time but I really enjoyed writing it. to be perfectly honest I don't even know if I'm mischaracterizing Genny and I have no idea where it came from if I am but sometimes that's just how it be ya know
> 
> hmm I really like this holy trinity of interaction

“Sister Irma, what does this one mean again?”

The white-clad nun drifts over to their newly-formed table group, where Genny points to a symbol on her page.

“Natural numbers, dear,” she answers, then floats off towards another raised hand.

“Still have no idea what those are,” Genny grumbles, marking messy dashes on her paper as she flicks her pencil back and forth.

“I believe it’s just the whole numbers, like counting,” the girl beside her supplies helpfully. “Integers.”

“Ah, thank you.” She writes down the definition next to the fancy  _ N _ .

“Do you need the rest?” Celica asks. Her page is full of definitions.

Genny stares with narrowed eyes down at her notes for a moment, then shakes her head. “No, I was only not paying attention in the beginning. I have all the others. Thank you too, though.”

Just as Celica’s about to turn the page, the other girl pipes up. “Er, sorry, do you think I could have a look at it? Just for a second?”

“Oh! Of course!” She unclips her binder and slips the paper out. As she hands to to the girl, she realizes she doesn’t even know her name.

“I don’t think we’ve introduced ourselves,” Celica begins. “My name’s Celica, and this is Genny,” she says, ignoring Genny’s  _ “hey! I can introduce myself!” _

She watches as the girl looks surprised, then interested. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Silque,” she replies smoothly, so befitting of her name - smooth as silk.

“Wait,” Genny interjects before Celica has a chance to say anything, “you’re silk? Like, made of silk?”

“Genny!” Celica reprimands, fully intending to apologize, but Silque merely laughs, a gentle bluebird’s laugh. “I’m not sure that’s possible. No, it’s just my name - Silque.” She writes it down and Genny takes the paper in earnest.

“Wow, that’s so cool.” She gives it to Celica, who notes the spelling. “I wish  _ I _ was named after an expensive fabric.”

“You change your dream name every week,” Celica remarks, exchanging papers with Silque. “Last week it was Galadriel, or Arwen, or Arya, or…” She counts them off on her fingers. “What else did you say?”

“Linnëa! With the fancy two-dotted ‘e’. How could you forget?” she exclaims, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “The theme was ‘elf names’. I guess this week’s is ‘cool fabrics’.”

Silque giggles at that, again with her light bluebird tittering. “I’m glad to have inspired...that, in you.”

Before Genny can give a response, their attention is called up to the front again, with a set of problems on the board. Someone walks by to give them handouts, which Celica accepts, passing them out to her table.

“I’d like for us all to attempt these first, as a review,” Sister Irma announces, circling specific numbered problems. “Pay attention to numbers one and four, as we all sometimes seem to forget the negatives somewhere along the way.”

“I still have no idea how to do it,” Genny echoes her sentiment from earlier as the class’ general noise resumes. “Why are there so many fractions? How can a fraction even be negative?”

“That’s just the way it is,” Celica says, trying to suppress a laugh.

“Hmph.” Genny crosses her arms, glaring at the board. “I want to be a writer, not a mathematician!”

“Oh, is that what you were doing yesterday, when Mr. E called on you?” Silque asks casually, looking focused on the first problem.

“I’m - I -  _ yesterday? _ I - what -” At once, she’s reduced to a stammering mess, dropping her pencil and turning red as her demeanor does a complete 180. Celica smiles to herself. It happens every time someone asks Genny about what she puts in her little red notepad.

“Yesterday, in music,” Silque presses. “We’re in the same music class, do you recall?”

“Music?” Now,  _ this _ is news to Celica. “You take music?”

Silque smiles and sets her pencil down. “I do, in fact. Both vocal and instrumental. I take it you’re also in the music program?”

“Yes, first period,” she says. So this girl can sing! It makes sense, she thinks; with a voice like that, it would be a shame to let it go unheard.

“I’m so sorry! I completely forgot!” Genny bursts out all of a sudden, and she looks surprisingly wretched. “I’ve always had trouble remembering faces, it’s nothing against you! I can’t even describe them well, in writing, and I hate it!”

“Oh, Genny…” She’s always been an easy crier, in Celica’s long years of knowing her, and she looks close to tears this time. “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” she reassures her. “You’re still an amazing writer and person.”

“Celica is correct. I wouldn’t dare dream of being offended by that.” Silque’s tone is still gentle, yet firm as well. She smiles encouragingly, lightening the mood somewhat. “Everyone’s good at something, but perfection will come with time. I’m sure you’ll get there.”

Genny sniffs once, and when she speaks, it’s a little softer than normal. “Thanks, guys. I can’t believe I’m spilling my guts in the middle of math class, but -” she smiles wryly - “here we are.”

They all laugh, then hastily pretend to be doing the work as Sister Irma comes around. As soon as she leaves, Silque leans in, beckoning for the other two to do the same.

“Maybe I can, as you put it, ‘spill some guts’ as well - well, it’s less of a secret and more of a bit of interesting information. Do you know Ms. Altina?”

“The other music teacher, right?” Celica checks.

“That’s her. Do you notice anything about her name?”

“Rinea, right? I mean, it’s very nice and all, but what’s funny about it?” Genny chimes in, looking confused.

“How do you know - you know what, I’m not even gonna ask. I think Silque meant her last name,” she corrects. She trusts that Genny has her ways, hopefully non-stalkerish/creepy ways.

“Ohh.” The aspiring author nods in understanding. “Altina? Isn’t that the name of that old composer who wrote a bunch of songs when she was young?”

Celica almost snorts at the understatement, and by the looks of it, Silque is holding back laughter as well. “She’s way more than that - she wrote at least nine symphonies and hundreds of studies, solos, pretty much whatever you can think of - all before she reached adulthood. What about Altina?” She addresses the question to Silque.

“Well…” her voice drops down, hushed, and she looks around warily for a moment before carrying on. “A little bird told me that it’s more than a simple namesake. It’s not just a coincidence, if you will.”

“You mean she’s related?” Genny really snorts at that, making no effort to mask the rare sound of derision. Celica prays that Sister Irma doesn’t hear. “Sure, and I’m the great-great-granddaughter twice removed of Priscilla Cornwell. You see, we both write books. Or at least, I  _ think _ she wrote a book, once -”

“I’m a little skeptical too,” Celica says truthfully. “That’s quite a bold claim to make, especially without any proof.”

To her surprise, Silque only shrugs. “I did say I heard it from a bird, although I also hear that Ms. Altina doesn’t refute this claim herself.”

Genny sniffs. “Of course she wouldn’t, she’d be crazy not to accept that image, rumour or not. If people thought  _ I  _ was related to Priscilla Cornwell, well -”

“Sorry for interrupting, but who is that?” Celica interrupts, not exactly feeling sorry at all. “You keep mentioning her.”

Genny pauses for a moment, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Actually, I’m not really sure. I know my history teacher mentioned her once, but that was when I’d just woken up, so I wasn’t really listening. I do know she wrote laws, though...I think?”

Celica lets out a good-natured sigh. “With all the times you fall asleep in class, how you still have such high marks eludes me.”

“Did you really just use the word ‘elude’ in a regular sentence?” Genny asks shrewdly. Even Silque has to smile at that.

“Says the writer,” Celica counters, feeling her palms start to bead with sweat. She’s been told multiple times and by different people that it can get weird...her ‘unusual’ vocabulary, that is. Still, it’s as her father said - using sophisticated words correctly will give one a smarter and better image, and that only comes with practice.

It’s strange. After all the forgetting she tries to do, she still holds on to that.

“Enough about me,” Genny says with a pained smile. “No one wants to hear about boring books and writing and whatever -”

“On the contrary!” Silque exclaims, earning Celica’s appreciation immediately. Judging from the grin she’s sporting, it looks like this girl might have a mischievous side too. “I’d absolutely love to hear more about the writing that you do! Is it original fiction?”

“Of course it is!” Genny replies with such sudden vehemence that Celica can’t help but wonder if someone flipped a light switch with how quickly the writer’s attitude changed. “I wouldn’t stoop so low as to write  _ fanfiction _ .” She practically  _ spits _ out the last word, which is comical to hear in her high-pitched squeak.

“Hey, if that’s the way people want to express themselves, then we should let them,” Celica interjects. She feels there has to be some sort of wall between the waves of Genny’s fanfiction-directed rage and the poor fanfiction writers. “It’s not harmful to anyone, as far as we know. It’s just as they say in their notes, don’t like, don’t read!”

Genny visibly cringes at that, grimacing while Silque chuckles. “My ears are bleeding,” Genny says with not an ounce of humour, making Silque laugh harder. “Also, how would you feel if someone wrote ‘fanfiction’,” she puts up air quotes, “about you without your knowledge or consent?”

Celica raises an eyebrow. “They’d have to have no life, then, because there’s nothing that interesting about me.”

“Don’t say that about yourself!” Genny exclaims, still with the full force of her intensity but without any of the previous rage. “You’re absolutely amazing at piano, and at music, and you’re just a wonderful person in general!”

“Er, I wouldn’t say  _ amazing _ ,” Celica protests, but Genny waves her off.

“Nonsense! Please accept my love!” Genny smiles widely at her, and it’s hard to believe that just a moment ago, she was dissing fanfiction with enough spite to fill a glass of sparkling water.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling back, but when she glances at Silque, the fair maiden looks lost in thought, staring at her studiously.

She feels her smile slip away. “Something wrong, Silque?”

Silque holds her gaze for a few seconds longer before replying. “I’ve come to have faith that everything Mila ordains must have meaning, and that nothing truly happens by chance.” She brings her laced hands up to rest on the desk, completing the pensive look. “As it would be, I’ve been looking for a pianist for a while, and it seems Mila has delivered me straight into the arms of one.”

“Oh? For what reason?” Celica’s family is religious themselves, but not extensively, and in all honesty, she finds it hard to believe in preordained fate and things like that. However, it’s not her place to say why things happen the way they do, or why they met at this specific time on this day in math class.

“It’s a little hard to explain now,” Silque says, now steepling her hands. “But if you’d like to come down to the music room tomorrow at lunch, I could show you? Genny, you too, if you’d like?”

“Ooh! Yes! We’ll be there!” Genny says happily.

“You’ve got me intrigued now,” Celica tells the vocalist. “Although don’t fall for Genny’s exaggeration of my playing, I’m really not that good.”

“I’m sure it’ll be more than enough,” Silque replies, voice full of warmth. Somehow, even those words, perceived as usually passive, make her feel...better.

They share a short moment of comfortable silence before their attention is again called to the front where Sister Irma is now taking up the questions that they didn’t do. Celica rushes to scribble down some coherent answers, but she can’t help but feel excited for tomorrow’s lunch.

It’s strange, how three people met in a math class and came together so well like this. Whether it was by chance or by the will of Mila, she doesn’t know.

She does know, though, that their friendship will only grow from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mood,,,when you. don't do your math work because you're loving and appreciating your friends
> 
> genny really be out there drinking that love and appreciate my friends juice


End file.
